


Draft bin

by cinnacoffi



Category: History (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-28
Updated: 2016-07-28
Packaged: 2018-07-27 06:36:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7607587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cinnacoffi/pseuds/cinnacoffi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>stuff that may or may not be worked on/ completed</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This piece is really really short, its one of my favorites so I intend on hopefully finishing this, for now just enjoy this tidbit I wrote~

He’s been throwing up. It’s been like this for a few days now, he guesses he should do something about it, but he really could care less. The sight of his hands just barely hanging onto the porcelain before him had become a routine. 

It was sort of this monotonous procedure of, wake up-- realize he’s still alive-- regret that he’s still alive, these thoughts proceed until his throat closes up and he’s reminded about the date he has with the toilet in about… 2 seconds. 

“Fuck, not again”

Lilacs and Lavenders, they were everywhere and he hated it. His whole apartment smelt disgusting, like a meadow had taken its place beneath the floorboards. The scent relentlessly seeped out between his every step. It was an infestation, except there was no exterminator capable of eradicating this-- whatever this was. 

“Please..no more”

It wasn’t-- it wasn’t this much in the beginning. It started out with these infrequent coughs, which he could get away with by dipping his head into his hoodie. It always smelt like he was a living febreze bottle after each instance. 

Then the coughs became frame shattering hacks and the hacks turned into vomit. Pretty soon Yijeong felt like some sort of cursed florist. Aside from drunkenly grinding on the nativity scene at a christmas party, he wondered what he had done to piss off god this time. 

\--

“Yijeong.”

“mm?”

Kyungil, his stupidly tall friend, had finally invited him out to spend time together. Kyungil had been busy these past few weeks (borderline months) with completing his final presentation project. It wasn’t like Yijeong felt a little lonely, he didn’t need kyungil. He had tons of ways to keep himself entertained, like seeing how many marshmallows could fit in his mouth before he ends up “decorating” Dokyun’s couch, or looking up how to make a Kyungil shaped voodoo doll online out of “innocent curiosity.”


	2. Blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one is something I started about pianist yj, and rising star model kyungil.

Blue

His outfit was louder than the keys he was pressing onto. The room smelt like a toxic mix of over expensive cologne and perfume, with just a hint of desperation. His suit chafed his neck slightly, and he couldn’t help but rub the back of his collar every few minutes. He’d only been been there for about half an hour when he realized the music that was filling up the room was live. Perched upon an inky piano stool, was a young man in a baby blue suit, and milk chocolate brown hair. What the fuck was going on with his suit? Where did he even find it? No one else seemed to find the Pianist out of the ordinary. Then again they’ve most likely been downing glasses after glasses of wine hours before he even arrived. Sadly he wasn’t here to get wasted, he was here for business. He fixed up his hair slightly, before sitting down next to a couple of designers. They were all seated on an L shaped couch, and wore monochrome outfits, black and white appeared to be the trend nowadays. All their faces were a deafening shade of red, and their harsh words even more so. Kyungil deducted that he had stepped in at the worst possible time, considering how fiercely they were arguing. He could identify about ¾’s of the possible employers around him, there was Yoon Eunsung, a woman who single handedly dominated any show she curated. Her dresses were sought after by the highest profile celebrities, and even some royalty. A rumour had been going around about how any bride lucky enough to get married in a dress made by her, would be guaranteed a lasting marriage. Another designer he was familiar with was Kim Muyeol, he was just as fresh faced as Kyungil in this industry, but unlike Kyungil, Muyeol had already set his popularity ablaze with his robe centered line. Next to Muyeol was the devil himself-- Yoon Soo, the undisputed “King” of the Seoul fashion industry. Yoon Soo was known for being crazy, as his methods were unorthodox, coupled with penchant for Avant Garde, it was impossible to look away from him. Not only were his designs eye catching,but he was hard to work with. Most models were lucky if they walked away from the shoot with their grip on reality intact, the guy just had a way of turning everything on it’s head. His short temper didn’t exactly help him either, Yoon Soo was very opinionated and would snap at any moment. Kyungil heard that one time Yoon Soo had smashed every single camera on set because someone had said they prefered pink lemonade over regular. Despite the complications that come attached to Yoon Soo like bandages to a burn victim, if anyone was lucky enough to walk down his runway, their success was practically set in stone. Which was why Kyungil sat right next to him, despite the constant screeching from the wasted designer. Funny how the faster they talked, the faster Kyungil felt he heard the keys sound. He looked up from his empty hands to see Yoon Soo’s face right in front of his. The designer had become uncharacteristically quiet, it was almost unnerving. He felt like a rabbit before a wolf, Yoon Soo’s stare couldn’t have lasted no longer than 10 seconds, but to Kyungil it felt like everything had gradually slowed down. This could be his chance, If he could just open his mouth. Kyungil began to feel too much, suddenly the unpleasant chafe on his neck transformed into grating nails, scratching, and scratching, and scratching, unrelentlessly against his skin, spilling his blood and exposing his spine to anyone who so much as glanced at him. If Kyungil could only figure out a way to make everything speed up again, if only he could fight the urge to put his hand to his neck, and instead place it in Yoon Soo’s hand, if only.


	3. Passout

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> unedited

He didn’t even really know if he was here right now, he couldn’t tell. Were they suppose to be kissing? Was he even allowed to kiss him right now, in this reality, at this moment. Yijeong couldn’t remember the last time he had gotten sleep, or well, the last time anything seemed remotely real. 

There was Kyungil, hands around his neck squeezing it kinda felt like they were kissing. The way his hands try to find enough purchase on Kyungil’s arms, gave away his fear. He’s trying so hard to push him away, just far enough so the pain will stop. Sometimes Yijeong finds he’s not scared anymore, what if it's not real? But the thoughts of him giving into the suffocation are the most terrifying, so he keeps struggling. It’s not often he opens his eyes to this anyways. Kyungil standing over him, the pure encompassing hate in his eyes, his veins a tell tale sign that he’s gripping onto Yijeong’s neck harder than he’s ever held onto something in his life. Harder than he’s held onto their relationship. If that what they are at this moment, anyways.

Yijeong’s never stayed in that position longer than a glimpse really. 

Some moments, lasted longer than others. Long enough where he can realize what they are to each other and who he’s meant to be. He tried to see a therapist once, but the moment his mouth opened, it was full-- lips pressed against his, suddenly he wasn’t in the chair, he was on his lap, and all he could do was kiss back. So Yijeong gave up trying to find help, it’s not like he stayed in one place long enough to find any. Kyungil’s always there, but Yijeong can't tell if it's his own illusion of him, or if he’s some kind of constant in his life(lives). Sometimes Kyungil isn’t the only constant. It rains, it rains for weeks, or hours, Yijeong can never actually tell. Sometimes it doesn’t matter where he wakes up, if he’s awoken in his bed back home, or some random apartment in Seoul, Los Angeles, Paris. There’s always rain. Those moments were the worst for him, if it rained hard enough Kyungil wouldn’t even be there. All Yijeong could see was this constant veil of gray. His headphones played rain, the tv sounded like rain, anything that came out of anyone's mouth was a downpour. He jumped once, but the fall never came. Yijeong found himself drowning in his sheets, cold sweat clinging onto him like he wished Kyungil would. The clock read 4:07 AM, but that didn’t stop him from looking out the window and seeing-- rain. The rhythm of falling droplets matched the notes of his frantic heart. There was a long silence, drawn out and heavy, until Yijeong laughed. He laughed and cried and then laughed some more. What did he expect, really? What else could’ve happened when he tried to kill himself. 

 

The rain, like everything else, was only constant for a moment. 

 

Some moments made him feel more grounded than others. He wishes he could just lock himself into some of the realities he’d fallen into. The ones where he was on the couch, snuggling up to Kyungil in his pajamas, were the best. The lighting was soft but that look in Kyungil’s eyes was even softer. Sometimes the the room and the furniture in it would be upscale, classy and expensive. Every piece would look like it came out of some magazine. Other times the room was freezing, there wouldn't be a soft hum being given off by the tv because they couldn't afford one. What could be heard were the arguments upstairs, or the wail of a passing police siren. The room would only be illuminated by the light posts from outside, and all they’d have was each other. 

Kyungil wouldn’t always be his either. Yijeong’s found himself reaching up, just to press a kiss into the corner of the other’s mouth.Just to be pushed back, a look of confusion painted onto kyungil’s face. It took a moment until Yijeong’s own brain would catch up and he’d realize-- the scenery was the same-- but the experiences weren’t. He could go through an entire week, 7 days, 168 hours, in one place. A small apartment, a handful of friends. It was a basic lifestyle, the furniture comfortable and clearly used, the fridge stocked with leftovers and a few vegetables, every color was neutral. He’d be dating Kyungil, they’d be something close and inseparable, for once they’d be unmoving. Then the next week he’d awake to the same bed, the same decorations and colors, everything would be the same. But whenever he’d try and press himself closer to Kyungil, try to hold him, the other would back away, and that’s when he knew they weren't.


End file.
